'My name's Foma,' he answered, 'and my nickname's Biryuk' (_i.e._
wolf). [Footnote: The name Biryuk is used in the Orel province to
denote a solitary, misanthropic man.--_Author's Note_.]
'Oh, you're Biryuk.'
I looked with redoubled curiosity at him. From my Yermolaï and others I
had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the
peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire.
According to them there had never been such a master of his business in
the world before. 'He won't let you carry off a handful of brushwood;
he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even
in the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting
him--he's strong, and cunning as the devil.... And there's no getting
at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no snare he'll
walk into. More than once good folks have planned to put him out of the
world, but no--it's never come off.'
That was how the neighbouring peasants spoke of Biryuk.
'So you're Biryuk,' I repeated; 'I've heard talk of you, brother. They
say you show no mercy to anyone.'
'I do my duty,' he answered grimly; 'it's not right to eat the master's
bread for nothing.'
He took an axe from his girdle and began splitting splinters.
'Have you no wife?' I asked him.
'No,' he answered, with a vigorous sweep of the axe.
'She's dead, I suppose?'
'No ... yes ... she's dead,' he added, and turned away. I was silent;
he raised his eyes and looked at me.
'She ran away with a travelling pedlar,' he brought out with a bitter
smile. The little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began
crying; the little girl went to the cradle. 'There, give it him,' said
Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding-bottle into her hand. 'Him, too, she
abandoned,' he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. He went
up to the door, stopped, and turned round.
'A gentleman like you,' he began, 'wouldn't care for our bread, I dare
say, and except bread, I've--'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Well, that's for you to say. I would have heated the samovar, but I've
no tea.... I'll go and see how your horse is getting on.'
He went out and slammed the door. I looked round again, the hut struck
me as more melancholy than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke choked
my breathing unpleasantly. The little girl did not stir from her place,
and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle,
and timidly pulled her slipping smock up on to shoulder; her bare legs
hung motionless.
'What's your name?' I asked her.
'Ulita,' she said, her mournful little face drooping more than ever.
The forester came in and sat down on the bench.
'The storm 's passing over,' he observed, after a brief silence; 'if
you wish it, I will guide you out of the forest.'